


You've Never Had to Ask

by vitruvianwatson (keepyoureyesfixedonme)



Series: Tumblr Ficlets [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, First Kiss, Fix-It, Fluff, John is So Good, Love Confessions, M/M, Series 4, Sherlock is a Mess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-21
Updated: 2017-01-21
Packaged: 2018-09-19 01:12:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9410906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keepyoureyesfixedonme/pseuds/vitruvianwatson
Summary: John licks his lips, his eyes finally settling directly on Sherlock, their gazes locking as they have so many times before.  “I think.”  He stops again, his hand clenching again, and takes a deep breath.  “I think it’s time we talked.”





	

**Author's Note:**

> **READ THIS BEFORE YOU READ THE STORY:** I wrote this before the entirety of season 4 had aired when we were still working under the assumption that Sherlock's "I love you" was meant clearly and obviously for John. This takes place once everything is over and done with and they are back at 221B Baker Street. Enjoy!

It’s the end of season 4, the end of everything that has happened, and Sherlock and John trudge up the stairs to 221B, Sherlock’s scarf hanging from his hand, dragging along the floor. They reach the first floor landing, and before Sherlock can say anything John continues up the next set of stairs. Sherlock watches him go, his heart heavy and something very much like grief lodged in his throat. 

After a moment, he turns away and shrugs out of his coat, not bothering to hang it up, just throwing it onto the sofa along with his scarf. He scrubs his hands over his face, hard. He can hear John’s footsteps above him, the sound of a drawer opening and closing. He’s surprised when the footsteps begin to descend the stairs. He turns around, dropping his hands, just as John comes into the sitting room, his gait just a little different from before.

Ah. He was just putting his gun away then. Somehow that knowledge doesn’t ease the tension in Sherlock’s shoulders or dissolve the lump in his throat, but it does shift his worldview for what must be the hundredth time that week.

John stops in the doorway, his hands at his sides. His left clenches and unclenches once, and he shakes out the tremor.

“So,” he says, and stops. He’s looking somewhere to the left of Sherlock’s head.

Sherlock clears his throat lightly, his fingers fluttering nervously at his sides. “So,” he says, feeling utterly stupid.

John licks his lips, his eyes finally settling directly on Sherlock, their gazes locking as they have so many times before. “I think.” He stops again, his hand clenching again, and takes a deep breath. “I think it’s time we talked.”

Suddenly it feels as if there’s no air in the room. Sherlock makes his voice hard because if he doesn’t then he’s sure he will cry. “What more is there to say?”

John’s brow furrows, and Sherlock hates that he wants to kiss him just there, to make the frown disappear. “Sherlock–”

“Leave it, John.”

“We can’t just ignore this anymore–”

“Who says?” Sherlock snaps. “It’s not up to you, John, you’re not in charge of the situation!”

Sherlock expects a clipped comeback, an angry response. What he gets instead is an exhausted sigh that seems to expel all of the energy from John’s body. His shoulder slump, his head drops, and his hand comes up to pinch at the bridge of his nose.

“I can’t do this anymore.”

221B seems to expand and shrink all at once. John has never seemed so far away, and yet Sherlock feels as if the only things separating them are John’s words, still hanging in the air, floating between them as if they’ve stopped halfway to Sherlock’s ears, aware they are the last things Sherlock has ever wanted to hear.

Sherlock turns his back because this time he can’t stop the moisture from gathering in his eyes. “Then leave. Go if you want to, I’m not stopping you.”

For a few heart-stopping seconds there is only silence. “Sherlock, that’s not what I–”

“I’m not asking you for anything,” Sherlock interrupts him, and his voice has begun to tremble.

“Sherlock–” 

But now that he’s begun he can’t seem to stop. “I told you–” He gasps in an unexpectedly painful breath. “I told you I loved you, and I can’t take it back. It’s done. It’s done, it’s _done_ , John, and I can’t–but I’m not–not asking you to–”

“To love you back?”

John’s voice is much closer than Sherlock expects, and Sherlock inhales sharply, his breath catching. There’s a hand on his waist, warm even through the layers of his suit jacket and shirt, and Sherlock goes very still. Another hand comes to rest on the other side, and then there’s a gentle pressure in between his shoulder blades, which Sherlock realizes must be John’s forehead when his next words come out muffled.

“You don’t have to _ask_ for that, Sherlock. You’ve never had to ask. It’s always been yours.”

Sherlock tries to swallow, but his throat is too tight. “John, you don’t have to–”

“Stop fighting me,” John whispers. “Please, Sherlock, stop fighting. That’s what I meant. When I said I couldn’t do this anymore. I meant I can’t fight it anymore, not now that I know what I know. I don’t _want_ to fight it. I’m so tired, Sherlock, I’m so _so_ tired of pretending I’m not in love with you.”

Sherlock’s eyes fall shut, the tears that have been precariously perched slipping out and streaking down his face. Before he’s even aware that he’s decided to do it, he’s turning around, blindly seeking John’s mouth with his own. A touch of fingers against his jaw, feather-light and so achingly tender, guides him, and suddenly his entire world is reduced to the feeling of John’s lips against his, John’s hands cradling his face, John’s warmth seeping into him as their bodies press together from shoulders to hips.

A sound escapes him, something alarmingly close to a sob, and Sherlock breaks away, his face finding shelter in the curve of John’s neck, his eyes still squeezed so tightly shut he sees stars, and his fingers white-knuckled in John’s jumper. John is speaking, his voice soothing and his words surely important, but Sherlock can’t hear past the pounding of his own heart. 

When the sounds start to make sense to him again the first thing he picks out is “Look at me, Sherlock,” so he does. He lifts his head and, with great effort, forces his eyes open. He’s met with the softest expression he has ever seen grace John’s features, his head tilted and his mouth pulled up just slightly at one corner, his eyes, although damp, emanating only warmth.

John reaches up, cupping Sherlock’s jaw, his thumb sweeping along a sharp cheekbone. “I love you,” he says, and it’s so simple and so _real_ that it makes Sherlock’s lip tremble.

“Kiss me again please,” he gasps.

John doesn’t need telling twice, and this time when his tongue sweeps out Sherlock parts his lips, and everything tilts into a slower, deeper territory than Sherlock has ever experienced. He has no idea what he’s doing, but it doesn’t matter because John _loves_ him, and John’s hands are in his hair, and John’s tongue is in his mouth, and John isn’t going to leave.

Lips trail back along his jaw, and as Sherlock tilts his head back, the sheer amount of emotional upheavals he’s been through today hits him like a freight train.

“John,” he says, and John just hums against his skin. “John, I–I’m exhausted.”

John’s forehead drops to Sherlock’s shoulder, and he’s shaking slightly. It takes Sherlock an embarrassing amount of time to realize that John is laughing. Giggling, really.

Sherlock frowns. “What’s so funny?”

John shakes his head, still giggling, and Sherlock huffs.

“It just figures,” John says, finally lifting his head and wiping at his eyes with one hand. “The minute there’s actually a possibility that I might get to shag you, you’re tired for the first time in your life.”

Sherlock’s face flushes scarlet. “Well, I didn’t _plan_ it that way! Besides,” he adds petulantly, “I don’t shag on the first date.”

John breaks down into laughter again, and Sherlock cracks a smile, and then he’s giggling, too. John presses his face into Sherlock’s shoulder and laughs and laughs, and it’s the most beautiful thing Sherlock has ever seen.

Until the moment when John, having gotten his breath back, straightens, and presses up onto his tiptoes to kiss him, softly, and says, “C’mon, genius. Take me to bed.”

And Sherlock does.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Comments are loved and appreciated. You can find me on tumblr at [vitruvianwatson](http://vitruvianwatson.tumblr.com) and be sure to check out [my writing tag](http://vitruvianwatson.tumblr.com/tagged/liz-writes-things). <3


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